


a creature void of form

by earnshaws



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cultural Differences, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Nonverbal Communication, Sharing Body Heat, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 17:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19114807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnshaws/pseuds/earnshaws
Summary: Lady Silence smiled, a wry half-smile, and shook her head. She swung her legs over the side of the bed with a soft rustle of fur, and patted the covers next to her in the universal gesture forCome sit.Goodsir did, gratefully, at a respectful distance from her. “Thank you. I— you must be lonely, yes?”Silence shook her head, that wry smile still on her face. Goodsir had the distinct feeling that she was amused by him, entertained by his clumsy fumbling around her, the way he tripped over himself where she was concerned.





	a creature void of form

It was colder than usual, that day— though, Goodsir supposed, there was really no point in calling it _day_ , when the night was so profoundly perpetual. The sky was as dark at midnight as at noon, the only metric by which one might mark the passing of the time the regular ticking of the clock, and the progression of the calendar tacked up on the narrow wall of his quarter. According to that, it was January. Which made sense, considering the chill. Goodsir had always liked the cold, back in Scotland, but of course the winter here in the north was a different animal altogether, as far removed from the pleasant cold of his homeland as an ape from an ant. It sunk into the bones, this cold; magnified and made menacing by the endless, trackless dark, it seemed to stalk the ship as surely as the— the animal what had killed Captain Franklin, the creature Lady Silence called Tuunbaq. Even now he could feel it seeping through the wood of the ship, through his skin, through his very soul.

It also made it rather difficult to sleep. At least when he was working he had things to take his mind off of it, tasks that required him to move about, urging the blood through his limbs and warming even his uttermost extremities. But men, even here, required rest, and when Goodsir lay still in the dark, listening absently to the noise of men moving about the _Erebus_ , he could not drag his mind from the permanence of the cold. It soaked steadily through the three wool blankets he’d layered upon himself, and as much as he tossed and turned about in fitful attempts to drive it away, it lingered like a bloodstain.

Eventually, after what must have been hours, Goodsir gave up on any attempt at sleep. The longer he put off slumber, he reasoned, the easier it would come, his exhaustion acting as a tonic against the frigid environment. Rolling out of bed, he wrapped one of the blankets around his shoulders, put on his spectacles, and sat at his desk, lighting a candle with cold-clumsy fingers and pulling out a pen and an inkpot. He might as well get some work done, if he were going to sit up through the small hours. What with the chaos that had followed the captain’s bloody demise, he had neglected to update the expedition journal he had assured young Robert he would keep.

Goodsir unscrewed the top of his inkwell and stared down at the contents in dismay. It was frozen solid. _D__n_.

He tried for a bit to write with a pencil, but the cold had made the lead go funny, and it kept snapping on him. Ultimately he ended up with more shards of erstwhile tip than written words. Frustrated, Goodsir replaced the writing materials in his desk, and stared up at the low wooden ceiling. He could read, but that would hardly warm his frozen hands. He could wander about the ship, but that would mean exposing himself to more of the cold. He could examine the bodies meant to be autopsied tomorrow, but something in him shuddered at the thought of working with corpses at such a late, death-quiet hour.

Or he could visit Lady Silence.

She was probably asleep, Goodsir reasoned; even if she wasn’t, he had no business disturbing her in the middle of the night, just because he couldn’t sleep. But the thought of going back to shiver in his bed until the clock struck six was downright unbearable, especially because he knew he had no warming sunlight to look forwards to. He would just look in on her; if she was sleeping— which she almost certainly was, her body well-used as it was to these frigid climes— he would retreat to his cabin, or pace the corridors ‘til morning.

It was not a long walk, to the storage-chamber where they had put up Lady Silence. The Erebus was not as lavishly large on the inside as one might think, though navigating the narrow passages was a challenge at the best of times. When he reached the region of the stern where she was being held, Goodsir lifted his fist to knock, but then thought better of it— he didn’t want to wake her— and pushed the door open, just a crack, peering through with one eye.

Silence lay on her back, still fully dressed in her furs, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. A single beam of moonlight shone upon her face, casting her features into sharp relief. She was so very still that for a heart-stopping moment Goodsir was sure she had passed on— but then she turned, evidently alerted by the change in the quality of the light, and met Goodsir’s gaze with a startling alacrity.

“Lady Silence,” he said, pushing the door open. She nodded, not dropping his gaze. “I— couldn’t sleep, what with the cold. I wondered if you might— might be in the same predicament.” Immediately he felt foolish for saying so. She had lived her whole life in this environment; to her, this must have appeared as nothing more than a light chill.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly aware of that same fact, and shook her head.

“Yes, of course, I— I suppose this weather is quite routine for you.” Goodsir pushed the door open further, then shut it behind him, leaving him standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “But I did see you were awake, and, well, I— I wanted for company. But if you want me to leave, I shan’t inconvenience you a moment longer.”

Lady Silence smiled, a wry half-smile, and shook her head. She swung her legs over the side of the bed with a soft rustle of fur, and patted the covers next to her in the universal gesture for _Come sit_.

Goodsir did, gratefully, at a respectful distance from her. “Thank you. I— you must be lonely, yes?”

Silence shook her head, that wry smile still on her face. Goodsir had the distinct feeling that she was _amused_ by him, entertained by his clumsy fumbling around her, the way he tripped over himself where she was concerned.

“No?” Goodsir asked, feeling a blush color his face. He hoped fervently that the darkness of the room and the curls of his sideburns concealed it.

She cocked an eyebrow, and it wasn’t difficult for Goodsir to catch her meaning. _I am used to being alone. Not like you silly Englishmen, so dependent on the comforts of home and country_.

“I suppose that there is no room for such sentimentality, for your people.”

She nodded, slowly, not breaking his gaze— like a schoolteacher with a particularly dull pupil, patiently and deliberately leading him to the correct answer. _Not for you, either_.

“I would that I were the same,” confessed Goodsir. “Used to loneliness, I mean. I— I have few friends, on this expedition, and there is only so much comfort one can derive from correspondence. I miss my brothers, my family at home, the men at the museum.” He tears his gaze from his hands, curled in his lap, and meets Silence’s dark eyes. “You must miss your family as well?”

Her stare was fathomless, her expression blank, and it took Goodsir too many moments to realize his mistake. “Oh— oh, no, Silence, I didn’t mean—”

She shook her head, and he could see the glint of tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” murmured Goodsir, and without stopping to think took her hands in his. “I lost my—” he swallows— “my father, as well, when I was very young. The grief is unspeakable.”

Silence sniffed, and the brightness receded from her eyes. She nodded, and squeezed Goodsir’s hands, and only then did he realize what he had done, in a moment of instinctive compassion. His heart dropped into his stomach. Silence’s hands were not quite as large as his, but nearly, and so very warm. Her palms were rough, calloused unevenly with years of hard work. Almost trembling with nervousness, Goodsir rubbed a circle in the center of her left hand with his thumb.

A change of subject seemed to be in order. “Do you have a— a mate?” he asked, then cursed himself for the overly scientific terminology. Lady Silence was not some animal to be studied, not a caged creature to be observed. “A husband, I mean. Back at home.”

Silence shook her head, the wry smile returning to her lips, and wrinkled her nose a bit. _I never cared to take one_ , Goodsir read in her expression. Taking one of her hands from his, she gestured to him, eyebrow raised in a question. _And you?_

“Oh, no, I— I never considered it, really,” answered Goodsir, blushing. “Anatomy is my true love, always has been. I need nothing else.”

Silence frowned, and, very gently, placed her hand on Goodsir’s chest, directly over his heart. (He prayed she could not feel its racing beat, far faster than it had any right to go.) _And yet you are lonely_.

“Well— yes,” admitted Goodsir, trying and failing to wrench his attention from the sensation of Silence’s palm pressed up against his chest. Good Christ, how on Earth were her hands so _warm_ , in this blasted cold? He could feel her heat through three layers of thick clothing. “But it is what my calling demands. Long hours, away from the society of other men. Journeys to the far-off places of the world. Like here.”

Silence’s frown deepened, and with her other hand she gestured to herself. _We are alike, are we not?_

“In what way?”

Silence cupped her hand ‘round her open mouth, and Goodsir realized her meaning with a quickness that surprised him. “Called. Yes, I suppose we are.” She to the— creature, and its mythology; he to the study of the natural world. Lonely callings, both.

She nodded, and her attention drifted to the hand on Goodsir’s chest. The other came up to grasp his shoulder with a sturdiness that he would not have expected, and with the dual pressures of her grasp Goodsir felt oddly secure, held fast by a strong grip. He had the distinct sense that if she wanted Silence could harm him grievously, that beneath the heavy furs she wore her body was many times stronger than his.

She pressed down on his chest, and Goodsir caught his breath as her gaze returned to his. She lifted an eyebrow. _Fast heartbeat_.

“I know you could hurt me,” breathed Goodsir. “Should I not be afraid?”

Silence smiled, wry and amused, and shook her head. She gestured to him, then leaned in, her face so close to his he could feel her breath. Her hand left his chest, came up to cup his chin, and Goodsir’s heart seemed to stop in its tracks as he realized what was happening.

“When I said I was lonely, this is not what I meant,” he said, voice wavering. “You don’t have to do this. I don’t— I don’t expect anything from you, I’m not that kind of man.”

Silence grinned, and curled her fingers against Goodsir’s skin, cocking her eyebrow with a breathtaking confidence. _Perhaps not. Perhaps_ I _expect something from_ you _, Dr. Goodsir._

Time seemed to slow, in that moment, narrowing to a point as precise as the tip of a finely-sharpened scalpel. Silence’s eyes holding his, steely and sure; the pulsing heat between his legs; the feeling of her skin on his, banishing the cold with vital warmth. The glint of the moonlight on her teeth, white and fine as English bone china. If she wanted this, this brilliant ice-forged flame of a woman, who was he to deny her?

“Lady Silence,” said Goodsir, very quietly, “may I kiss you?”

Her smile widened, ever so slightly, as she closed the last, small space between them and pressed her lips to his.

The first and last time Goodsir had kissed a woman had been when he was but a boy of seventeen, the clever daughter of a bookseller he’d met in London. It had never gone farther than a kiss— his fault— and most of what he remembered of the occasion was pure awkwardness, her expecting him to take charge while he fumbled helplessly with the tie of her gown. Here, he had no such concerns. Silence kissed him firmly, authoritatively, with a practical expertise that reminded him of the most steady-handed anatomists he had known in London. All that was required of him was to open his mouth and allow her to guide him gently downwards, ‘til he was lying on his back on her bed.

Without even lifting her mouth from his, Silence swung her legs back so that she was fully on top of him, the warm, soft press of her fur-clad body a secure weight anchoring him down. She was heavier than he might have expected, even as she broke away for air and sat up atop him, shucking straightforwardly out of her furs. She did, however, meet his gaze steadily as she removed the last layer, revealing her bare chest.

“You are— very beautiful, Lady Silence,” said Goodsir, voice hushed in something very like reverence, and she was. Her skin was smooth and dark, her body sturdy and strong with muscle, her shoulders broad and well-made. An old white scar cut across her left breast, curving to the line of her sternum, and Goodsir tentatively reached up to touch it. “How did you get this?” he asked, tracing his fingers along it.

She formed her hand into a claw, and swiped down across the air. “A bear?” queried Goodsir, and she nodded. “Not Tuunbaq, though.”

Silence shook her head, and the meaning was clear. _Never Tuunbaq_.

“Were you hunting?” A nod, and Goodsir took a moment to marvel at that. He had seen polar bears before, there was a taxidermied specimen at the Royal Society in London— they were huge, menacing, easily five times Silence’s size. He could not imagine the strength and courage it must have taken to kill such a beast.

“So strong,” murmured Goodsir, and Silence smiled as she leaned down to kiss him, her deft fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt with ease. She pushed it off his shoulders and lowered herself all the way down, lying atop him with both of them naked from the waist up. Her hands, long-fingered and well-muscled, grasped his hips as she moved against him, and he wrapped his legs around her back and his arms around her shoulders, tangling one hand in her long dark hair. His heart was still pounding from nerves, his breath still shakier than he would have liked, but at least he didn’t have to worry about the direction the encounter was taking. Silence seemed to have that well in hand.

“You know,” said Goodsir, in one of the rare moments when Silence let him up for air, “this is not how English women do things.”

She raised both eyebrows, looking down at him, and Goodsir blushed as he realized her meaning. _And how would you know?_

“Is it that obvious?” asked Goodsir, and Silence gave him a playfully pitying glance as she nodded. Before he could respond she swung off of him and stood, grasping his wrist to pull him up along with her. He had scarcely got to his feet when Silence took his shoulders in hand and pushed him, with a strength that made his breath catch in his throat, down to the floor. Goodsir’s knees gave way with ease, and he did not kneel so much as fall, landing patellas first on the floor with a wince-worthy _thump_.

“Silence—” he managed, before she hushed him with a thumb over his mouth. The moment he realized that she desired his silence, his tongue stilled before his conscious mind could register a thing. She curled the remaining fingers of her hand beneath his chin, brushing the soft vulnerable space between his trachaea and his lower jaw, and gently tilted his head so that he was looking up at her. Her eyes were dark and lovely, fathoms deep, and she did not relinquish his gaze as she sat on the edge of the bed, using her other hand to push her trousers down and step out of them. Despite the fact that she was now completely unclothed, Goodsir held her eyes until she released his chin and buried both hands in his hair, guiding his head between her legs.

Goodsir felt the urge to tell her that he had never done this before, but she was surely already aware of that fact— and besides, now that he knew she didn’t want him to talk, he couldn’t fathom how he might summon the will to disregard her wishes. He swallowed hard, licked his lips, and tentatively kissed the thatch of curly hair at the meeting of her legs. Silence tugged on his hair approvingly, and he ventured farther, using his fingers to part her lips and lick up and down, as rhythmically and cautiously as if he were performing the most sensitive surgery. Silence hummed above him, and when she lifted her legs to drape them over his shoulders he felt the powerful flexing of her abdominal muscles.

Something about that, the sheer strength contained within her, was unbearably arousing to him, and almost without thinking he found himself pressing his nose up against her, licking at the spot he’d learnt in medical school was the seat of women’s pleasure. At that she tightened her legs around his head and pressed her hips up to him, wrapping her hands tighter in his hair, and Goodsir wondered suddenly if she might actually be able to hurt him like this. Choke him with her thighs, maybe, or snap his neck by his hair. The thought sent a fresh wave of arousal through him, and he took her in his mouth and sucked, tasting the salty sweetness of her on his tongue. Silence actually moaned— the first sound she’d made all evening, he realized— and flexed her hands in his hair, opening and closing them with no regard for the shivers the scraping of her blunt nails sent through Goodsir’s body. She was so wet, and the taste of her was so rich and vital, that he almost felt as though he were drinking from her, as a pilgrim might drink water from a shrine. Compostela desert, Arctic waste. Goodsir reached up and took her hips in his hands, moving with her as she rocked back and forth. After a few moments Silence leaned down, burying her head in Goodsir’s hair so that she was wrapped around him wholly, abdomen pressed to his forehead, blocking out what little light there was with her body.

Silence yelled as she came, a loud, ungraceful sound, and gripped his head with her thighs so tightly he saw stars. Goodsir did his best to take her through all of it, though he was starting to become light-headed, and only stopped when Silence yanked him back by his hair and pulled him up as she uncurled herself, kissing him with a hungry, unbridled fierceness that stood in sharp contrast to the controlled, authoritative manner she had possessed before. Goodsir opened his mouth, still slick with her wetness, gladly, and she pushed her tongue inside with a practiced motion, tracing along the backs of his front teeth with a force that made his head swim.

It was with reluctance that she pulled herself away, her own lips shining now in the moonlight. She pushed him aside and stood up, catching his eye and gesturing to the bed. Goodsir, sensing something of her intent, shucked off his trousers and lay on his back, trying not to shrink under the intensity of Silence’s gaze. His body was pale and soft, made so by a lifetime in laboratories and classrooms, nothing like the deep brown skin and well-earned muscle that marked Silence’s unclothed form. Nevertheless, looking down at him she licked her lips, and traced her fingers from the point of his sternum across his stomach, following the thin line of pale-brown hair until she reached the base of his already-hard prick. Goodsir caught his breath as she stroked the shaft with an agonizingly gentle touch once, twice, three times, and then withdrew her hand.

“Lady Silence,” he begged, caring not a whit for dignity, “please.”

That half-smile of wry amusement again. She caught his eye, and very slowly and deliberately twirled her finger horizontally in the air, making a rolling motion. Goodsir’s heart skipped a few beats when he apprehended her meaning.

“You want me to turn over,” he said, and she nodded with that same pedagogical satisfaction. Goodsir did not even consider not acquiescing to her wishes. The pillow against which his face was now pressed smelled something of her, some combination of whale-oil and musk. Not sweet— not the way one might expect a woman to smell, certainly— but so deeply intoxicating that it made Goodsir lightheaded.

Silence’s weight on the backs of his thighs followed shortly thereafter, and he heard the sounds of something wet— her own, maybe, or whatever whale oil she’d brought with her. Goodsir’s heart pounded faster than it had all evening, which was saying something. He had— known men who had done such things, of course, it was near-impossible to avoid in the London medical profession, but he had never dreamed that he might one day find himself a participant. It was, he reasoned, sodomy in only the most technical definition.

When Silence pushed one slick finger inside him, Goodsir had to bite down on the pillow to prevent himself emitting something mortifyingly close to a squeak. Silence must have felt the sudden tensing of his body, for though she didn’t remove her finger she set the other hand on the small of his back, rubbing slow calming circles into the skin there. The radiant warmth of her, and the strength of her hands, relaxed him almost involuntarily, and he found himself sinking into her touch as she added a second finger, twisting and probing inside of him. He bit his lip to stop himself crying out.

Silence lowered herself down on top of him fully, cautiously, as if she were taking great care not to harm him. Her weight settled down on his back, heavy and warm, and she began pressing her fingers inside him rhythmically as she rolled her hips. Her hand rested at the angle her prick would have if she were a man— something about the thought sent a dizzying wave of arousal through Goodsir’s body, the notion of her fucking him as another man might. Her other hand left his back and reached down to where his own prick lay, hard against his stomach, trapped betwixt the sheets and his body. She took him in hand with the same authoritative care, her long fingers graceful and skilled as a concert pianist’s. Caught by her dual ministrations, Goodsir gasped for breath, so light-headed with pleasure that he feared he might lose consciousness.

“Silence,” he cried, as the movements of her hands reached a fever pitch, “Lady Silence, oh!”

He came sooner than he perhaps would have liked, had he something to prove— but he didn’t, very clearly; he had never been good at presenting himself as anything he was not, and even if he had, Silence still would have cut him to the quick with her fathomless eyes, her wry smile, knowing despite his best efforts. He cried out again as she pulled out of him, briefly unbearable, and felt her smile as she pressed her face into the back of his neck. Her hair draped around him like a fragrant curtain, sleek and ocean-black, and he let himself sigh into the encompassing warmth of her. She wasn’t any larger than he was, but in that moment the press of her body felt endless.

“Lady Silence,” he mumbled into the pillow, “thank you.”

At that she rolled off of him gracefully, shifting so that she was lying on her side looking him in the eye. Her eyes were clear and dark, without the hazy post-coital hoodedness he was sure his own possessed. He turned over onto his side so that they were face-to-face, and she graced him with a brief kiss on the forehead, her lips still slightly damp against his skin.

“Mm,” Goodsir murmured. “You’re very warm.”

She smiled against his skin, and took his shoulders in her hands, guiding him to turn over so that they were back-to-chest. Pulling one of her discarded furs up to cover them, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled his body close to hers, fitting them together tightly as spoons in a drawer. Her breath warmed the soft space between the curve of his jaw and the hollow of his ear, and he sighed in contentment.

Tomorrow, he was sure, there would be concern and interrogation, second-guessing and awkwardness. Certainly things would not be so uncomplicated as they had been. He would rise early and don his clothes, deal with the untimely dead, face those frigid climes against which his soft, untested body had no defenses. But for now, in the small hours of the morning, Silence’s arms were secure round his waist, and her breathing was steady and strong, and her warmth was such that the cold which had leached the life from his very marrow since they arrived in this wasteland was slowly but surely retreating from him.

Goodsir closed his eyes, lulled by Silence’s decidedly undignified snoring at his back, and fell asleep in the blessed absence of the cold.

**Author's Note:**

> this is set sometime between episodes three and five, while lady silence is bunking on the erebus. title is from "shelter from the storm" by the great bob dylan.


End file.
